


La Petite Mort

by WaterMe



Category: WandaVision (TV)
Genre: (it IS Agatha's color), Agatha Made Me Do It, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, Gaslighting, Happy (?) Ending, I always had a thing for twincest, Infidelity, Kinky sex magic, Multi, Pregnant Sex, Vignettes, all that witchy stuff, good old fashioned lesbian sex, honestly theres like a lot of bodily fluids involved, might be purple prose who can say, past Wanda/Pietro, very dubcon for many reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 21:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe
Summary: “It’s just practice,” Agnes says. “Not even the real thing.Certainlynot anything to worry your husband over.”And Wanda blinks because something about that doesn’t sound quite right but she can’t quite put her finger on what, so she just smiles and she lets Agnes push her back and she lets Agnes reach inside her and take what she needs.
Relationships: Agatha Harkness/Wanda Maximoff, Ralph Bohner/Wanda Maximoff
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic didn't even exist until 10:30am this morning. Don't tell my boss how I spent those 'Professional Development' hours...
> 
> Thank you to [Y_ellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) for the spur-of-the-moment beta! 😘
> 
> **Content Warning:**   
> Dubcon: Take the canon Wandatha frenemy energy and identity issues and stick some sex and infidelity on it, that's it, that's the fic. 
> 
> Twincest: The section with Wanda/"Pietro" is very brief. If you want to skip/skim it starts with, “It’s just like old times”, and ends at the next section break. 
> 
> Gender stuff: Agatha has a very binary view of gender, which can be problematic in magical lore (women’s "natural" power, pregnancy and menstrual blood as magical totems that are intrinsic to womanhood, etc). Mind the microaggressions, and please be aware that her views are not the same as the author’s, nor do they necessarily reflect the rules of magic in this universe <3

“It’s just practice,” Agnes says as she drops to her knees, the thin carpet rough through her stockings. _“Certainly_ not anything to worry your husband over. It’s not even the real thing — it’s just your good friend Agnes passing along some tried and true hot tips, hot stuff! After all, a happy marriage starts in the bedroom.”

Wanda bites her lip, presses her apron down hard into her lap. Her cheeks seem to darken, and it’s a shame that the monochrome hides what must be a charming flush. “I think I keep our bedroom _very_ happy, thanks.”

“Oh, sweetie. You sure about that? When’s the last time you and Vis had a good canoodle?”

“Well, it was just last…” Wanda’s brow crinkles. “I mean, I’m _sure_ we must have…” 

Her perfect lips fall open as she thinks, and then her thighs fall open too when Agnes runs her hands up to find that place where silk and lace give way to a tantalizing strip of bare skin.

“Well,” Wanda says, once they’re done. Crinolines re-fluffed. Couch cushion flipped to the dry side. “I’m still not quite sure what all that had to do with keeping _him_ happy.”

Agnes just smiles. “The first step to a happy marriage is knowing yourself, hon,” and Wanda blinks, but she smiles back.

  
  
  


“It’s just girls being girls,” Agnes says, and she leans in to kiss Wanda. They’re reclining in Wanda’s sunny, perfect backyard. A gentle breeze ruffles Wanda’s hair. A balmy 72°. The perfect afternoon.

It’s always the perfect afternoon, with Wanda.

Wanda frowns against Agnes’ mouth; a tiny, perfect frown. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“Sure it is. Tell me this — did you and Vis get intimate after our last little gal pal get-together? Bet it was a _blast._ ”

“I certainly did feel… inspired. With Vis.” Wanda’s eyelashes flutter and Agnes has to push down a sharp bolt of jealousy. Silly to be jealous of an overgrown home massager, right? Still, she finds herself a little bit forceful as she presses Wanda onto her back on the warm, gray grass.

“We’re just being neighborly,” she says, slotting her thigh between Wanda’s snazzy (and oh-so-convenient) peddle-pushers. “Don’t you want to be neighborly, Wanda?”

“I _do_ want to fit in,” Wanda says and, well, they sure make _something_ fit.

  
  
  


“It’s just to make it easier for you,” Agnes says. “It’ll be easier to relax when the time comes, you foxy mama, you.”

“If you’re sure…” Wanda says.

A woman’s body certainly is amazing. The last time they did this, outside in the sun just a day ago (over a decade ago), Wanda was _so_ snug. It took _hours_ to get to four fingers — hours of careful stretching, of sweet cooing words and fingers caressing across furled nipples and a dewy brow.

Now, heavy with life (and yet somehow that bitch is still so damn dainty), Wanda’s body devours Agnes’ hand. A careful tuck of the thumb and a gentle push and Agatha is engulfed, a hot, greedy hug around her wrist.

Goddess bless color teevee because Wanda is just as perfect down here as Agnes had imagined. Pink melts into scarlet, moist folds tinted purple like the heavy petals of some fancy rose. Blood warms her cheeks, pretty as freckled stained glass, and the flush that blooms over her chest is even prettier. Perfect nipples, their delicate peaks growing ever thicker and darker the closer she gets (to orgasm, and to childbirth — the most powerful climax a woman will ever have). The spongy tips bead with white and Agnes curls around that massive belly, seals her mouth on one and sucks hard until Wanda clamps down, shuddering, on Agnes' fist. 

Agnes always did have a weakness for redheads. 

“If you’re sure it will help,” Wanda says, and tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. She’s so overwhelmed, so _scared._ “I don’t really know anything about this. It’s all happening so fast.”

“I promise, Wanda. Women have been doing this for centuries.”

And Agnes knows _that_ first-hand.

  
  
  


“It’s just my unusually high libido,” Agnes pouts. “C’mon, Red, help a sister out!”

Wanda flops back onto the couch with an exasperated sigh, with that indulgent quirk of her lips.

“You have to do the work, though,” she says through a yawn. “I’m pooped. I can’t believe the babies are finally sleeping.”

Ah, yes. The babies. 

The babies that are still screaming their obnoxious little heads off because Agnes can’t actually force those tiny forces of nature to shut their yaps. But she _can_ put up a teeny, tiny sound muffling spell so that Wanda can’t hear their teeny, tiny banshee shrieks.

“You just rest, hon. Sleep when the babies sleep.”

“What about Ralph?” Wanda mumbles, eyes sliding shut as Agnes straddles her thigh. “What does he think about… us?”

Agnes smiles. “Oh, you know Ralph. That man doesn’t think about much of anything.”

  
  
  


“It’s just like old times,” Agnes says through Pietro’s mouth, “c’mon, sis,” and Wanda only needs the tiniest push before she’s double checking that the boys _(all_ of them) are happily occupied outside and then she’s pulling her brother into her bed.

Damn. Kinky.

A smile and a suggestion and Wanda is falling into Pietro’s too-broad arms, into the wet depths of his mouth, into his boyish, jack-rabbiting thrusts. Agnes can never know Wanda’s body as well as the person who knew her before she was even born, but she’s learned it well enough to fake it. And even if Wanda notices the difference, it’s not like she trusts herself enough to believe it.

“Is it supposed to be this hard?” Wanda murmurs to Pietro’s sweaty chest, the words burning into Agnes’ skin from one house over. “Marriage, I mean. Mama and Papa made it look so easy, even when the world outside was falling apart.”

Agnes forces Pietro’s fingers to slow as they slide through Wanda’s beautiful, silky hair. She grits her teeth as she pulls the strings of his twitchy brain, both proud and frustrated at how faithfully she shaped him.

“You’re the boss, babe,” she makes him say. “If it’s hard, it’s because you’re the one making it hard.” And then, “Heh, _hard,”_ and he rolls back on top of Wanda and Agnes rolls her eyes but she doesn’t stop him (and neither does Wanda).

  
  
  


“It’s just stress relief,” Agnes says. “Boost those endorphins! Oh honey, I know you’re going through so much right now. _Anyone_ would have the blues. Let me help you feel better.”

Wanda burrows back into the covers. Her frail shoulders shake. “What’s even the point? It’s not like any of this is real.”

“Do you wanna talk about it, sweetness? Tell old Agnes what’s going on in that gorgeous brain?” and Wanda shakes her head and Agnes bites back a snarl.

Instead, she clucks her tongue and reaches under the bed for the strap-on that’s conveniently right there under her fingertips, plugs the magic wand into the outlet that’s in just the right spot.

“Well, then let’s get you out of that brain. And out of that _scrumptious_ leotard.”

One bloodshot eye appears over the crest of the pillowcase. “Should we, though?” Wanda sits up, puts her head in her hands. “What about Vision?”

Agnes takes a breath, tames her growl into a coo. “He’s not here, is he? He’s not here for you, but Agnes is.”

  
  
  


“It’s just the strongest way to do it,” Agatha says. “It’s sex magic, the oldest magic. The magic that men with their dusty books and their cold logic and their selfish cocks can never understand.”

Wanda is limp in her arms but she shudders when Agatha reaches between her legs. It’s an easy slide, just a few strokes to have her shouting tendrils of deep red magic to the stone walls of the basement. Agatha rubs her own thighs together as she inhales it. The power seeps into her pores, presses down the back of her throat. Raw energy fortifies her from the marrow out.

Her fingers come back scarlet.

“Blood?” she croons. “Oh, Wanda, you shouldn’t have. You’ve given me _so much_ already. Your joy. Your fear. Your sweat and your nectar, your milk and tears and now even your _blood._ There’s just one thing you haven’t given me.” 

Agatha’s hand tightens hard around the place Wanda is hottest and Wanda’s head lolls back and a doorway manifests with a whimper. Old, heavy wood, groaning as it opens. A pooling shadow as dark as rust, as bright as the original sin. 

“Your story, hon. Your _secret._ Let’s take a little trip, shall we, dearie?”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“It’s just the strongest way to do it,” Wanda says, “the strongest way to give to you what you gave to _me._ ” Her fingers twist against just the right spot and Agatha silently curses at what a quick learner that girl is. “An easy life. A _satisfying_ one. A happy, loving husband, someone to make the choices and take care of you when things get tough. It’s only fair, Agnes.”

Agatha’s back arches, a little death, and then Wanda is walking away and Agnes is smiling vacantly after her and inside Agnes’ small, petty brain Agatha screams and screams and screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (and [follow me and/or share this thing on Tumblr,](https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/post/646056248972869632/la-petite-mort) if you want!)


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